


Dirt

by coletta



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Celibate Gay Sherlock, Developing Relationship, Hallucinations, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Mind Palace, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-09 21:49:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17413355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coletta/pseuds/coletta
Summary: “There’s bodies. Everywhere.” Sherlock’s eyes started darting in every direction. “Corpses in various states of decomposition. I don’t know how I didn’t notice them before. Propped up on the furniture, draped over chairs and tables, huddled in corners. Some of them are quite old, covered in cobwebs. Some of them are…fresh.” He lifted up his hands. “Um. There’s blood on my hands. I…I have to wash this off.”“There’s no blood,” John said. “Its just something you’re seeing in your mind.”"They’re all…um. They all just looked at me.”





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

At 2am, John rolled over to answer his mobile in a pitch-black bedroom. He didn’t even mutter a groggy “Hello” Sherlock’s tired voice announced, _“Mycroft’s dead.”_

John was rubbing his eyes, then froze.

_“Can you put coffee on?”_

John didn’t remember climbing out of bed, but he was already hiking up yesterday’s trousers he’d left on the floor, wrinkled and cold from the chilly air. “W-what happened?"

Sherlock droned impatiently, harshly, _“I’m fine, it’s just all so tedious, and I was in the middle of a case and now I’m going to be tied up now with this. There's paperwork for the body donation and ugh…I have to call my parents and then there’ll be a memorial service and, God, this is going to take all night and probably the next few days. My leads are going to go cold and that’s just the beginning of it. Then it will be Mycroft’s people to contend with. You know the ones, his little coterie of government elites, all panicking because he probably left this and that unfinished, all coming after me to pick up the pieces because Mycroft Holmes is a counter-intelligence genius and they can’t even begin to comprehend his work, as if there’s anything I can possibly do for them, as if being half-way intelligent can make up for the fact he never left paperwork or plans or even shared his vision and his missions with anyone.  Spies and assassinations and coups and gorilla fighters and criminals all working for him, all without a paper trail, all in his head, and everyone just trusted him, for God’s sake...”_

“Woah, woah. Slow down!”

Sherlock exhaled loudly. _"I'm exhausted. Sorry._ _This is ridiculous. I can’t deal with this. I can’t…deal with this news and everything I’ve learned. I should have ignored the phone call when I got it.”_

John let Sherlock go on, going into the little kitchen and flicked on just one light over the sink, mindful of Rosie’s bedroom just beside the kitchen. “I’m brewing that coffee. You coming now?”

_“Yeah."_

“Stay on the phone,” John insisted “Just talk.” He put the filter in the coffee machine. “What happened to him?”

Sherlock snorted. _“Cancer.”_

“ _Cancer_?” John was incredulous. 

 _“It was sudden. Y_ _ou think_ I _knew anything about it? Do you remember a few months ago when he said he was going to be in China on important diplomatic business? And I told you  how I suspected it was a lie because he never tells me anything about what he’s doing and where he’s going, and certainly I didn’t care? I thought maybe he just wanted to avoid another Christmas with mum and dad. But he was actually being treated and…_ _Anyhow, he didn’t call. The staff called because they thought it was time.”_

John absently rubbed the stubble on his chin, deep in thought. “I want to say ‘I can’t believe he’d keep a cancer diagnosis secret from his family,’ but…its Mycroft Holmes, so of course he did. Why wasn’t he on the other side of the world seeing a whoever’s the world’s best oncologist?”

_“We don’t know that he didn’t do that. Or that he wasn’t planning to, when his condition caught up with him.”_

“Yeah.”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, then, _“He was possibly the most powerful man in the world, John. Secretly. And. I just can’t believe something so…_ common _…got him.”_

“Cancer?”

_“No, death.”_

John understood. He found himself unable to add anything else. He was acutely aware of the absence of a titan. A world without Mycroft Holmes in it, given all what John understood Mycroft did, was incomprehensible.  John asked “When did you find out about all this?”

_“A few hours ago.”_

“God. Did you…did you talk to him? I mean…did you two…”

_“Sometimes he was lucid, sometimes it was nonsense. And then he stopped talking altogether. He just…it just happened. A few minutes ago.”_

“I could come to you. So you can be with him a little while longer.”

_“No, no, I have to come to you.”_

John felt himself smile a little. Sometimes it felt like Sherlock was a million miles away. Since he’d met Eurus, Sherlock was in John’s life less often, trying to piece together her past, and John’s life had less room for Sherlock as Rosie grew and grew. Their cases seemed like a distant memory, a part of his life that was as far away as Mary or Afghanistan. He realized how relieved he was to hear from Sherlock, despite the circumstances, and glad to hear he needed him. “If you’re sure,” John assured him. “I’m here for whatever you need.”

_“I don’t know if we’re in danger or not. I want to stick close to you.”_

“In…danger from whom?”

_“Anybody. I have no idea what Mycroft’s influence shielded us from.”_

The reality of that statement made John’s skin prickle. He looked over at Rosie’s bedroom door.  “I’ve never given it any thought.”

_“It’s certainly saved us from prosecution several times."_

“Maybe not say that on an unsecured phone?” John suggested, his mind rapidly cataloguing years of illegal and morally dubious acts. He went to Rosie’s door and carefully peeked inside. His toddler daughter was sleeping soundly in her crib, surrounded by an army of stuffed animals. He crept inside and closed the curtains at the window, looking out briefly to see if anything was unusual in the neighborhood. His street was dark and quiet, bare trees rustling in November wind, brown leaves skittering down the sidewalks.

_“I’m not worried about law enforcement. The people I’m worried about aren’t looking for evidence for a trial.”_

John’s skin prickled. “You in the cab yet?” 

_“Yes.”_

John gathered a blanket up around Rosie’s shoulder and kissed his palm and planted it on her forehead. She didn’t stir. He straightened and left the room, keeping the door cracked open. “How’s your cab driver look?” he asked Sherlock.

_“He doesn't concern me. I’m watching closely, though.”_

John said nervously, “Maybe we should skip town? You, me and Rosie. I could pack a bag right now…”

 _“No,”_ Sherlock dismissed. _“I want to be on our turf if anything comes our way. If there is anything to be concerned about, I want to be where all our resources and allies are. And I don’t want to be in some foreign country where three tourists disappearing won’t be noticed by anyone.”_

“Ok, you’re scaring me. What’s the likelihood that something actually is going to happen?”

_“Remote. But even if it’s a one-in-a-million chance..."_

“Okay, okay,” John said, feeling breathless. “Just…”

_“What?”_

“Its been a long time since I’ve had to be scared for my life,” John said. “Kind of forgot. What it was like. It’s not fun anymore.”

Across the kitchen, the coffee begans to percolate loudly and John nearly jumped out of his skin.

_“John? Is everything alright over there?”_

“Its nothing,” John says sheepish, “I just scared myself is all. Coffee’s done.”

Sherlock chuckled.

“Hey, Sherlock.”

_“Yeah.”_

“I’m sorry about Mycroft.”

Sherlock was quiet a moment. Then, _“I’m not.”_

“Sherlock…”

 _“I’m glad he’s dead.”_  

“You don’t mean that,” John said sitting down at the kitchen table. It was a small, white table with four little chairs. Mary picked it out. She liked white, painted wood. John didn’t, because he could never remember to use coasters. There were rings in the wood. He grew up with 1970’s midcentury, Masonite Swedish furniture, and you didn’t need coasters to protect it’s finish. In the end, he let Mary have whatever she wanted, because he’d been so grateful that she loved him. And even though she was dead, and even though she’d lied and he should be angry, he gently traced the water stains on the paint and thought fondly of her. Love did things to you, against your better judgement, against logic. “I know you and Mycroft didn’t get along and there was some bad history, but he was your brother.”

 _“I have so much to tell you. He told me things when he was out of it,”_ Sherlock said in a hushed voice. _“I don’t know if he really meant to tell me.”_

"Sherlock, maybe…”

_“Things about Moriarty.”_

John went still.

That name. That long dead name that he never wanted to hear again, that he _should_ never have to hear again, felt like Velcro straps attached to a bomb across his chest and John felt his breathing speed up and his heart hurt. He reached up for that ghost sensation and of course nothing was strapped to his chest, but by the time his hand fell back to his lap, his whole body ached from stress. “I don’t want to talk about Moriarty anymore,” John said as softly as he could. “He’s been dead a long time. He can’t hurt you or me or anyone we love.”

_“John.”_

“Whatever Mycroft told you, just let it lie. Now, come over, we’ll have a coffee and in the morning, we’ll call your parents, break the news and I’ll support you however I can. Okay?” John thought for a moment, and made an offer he swore he’d never make again, not since Reichenbach: “And if you want to stay here a few days, you can stay. Just like old times, right?”

There was a pause. _“I appreciate that. Thank you.”_

John tried to breathe evenly. He could smell phantom smoke in his nose and hear the trembling voice of an old blind lady saying _His voice was so soft._ He quickly looked back at Rosie’s bedroom door, and it was just as he left it. He looked up at the clock in the kitchen and it was only 2:45am now, and the clock hands ticked, _tick-tok-tick-tok_ and John could suddenly hear Moriarty’s sing-song voice “ _Tick-tok-tick-tok_ ” and he could see Eurus’s dead expression staring at him through the black window over the sink and John bolted up from his chair with such abruptness that the chair fell over backwards and hit the floor loudly.

John stood there, startled.

In the next room, Rosie stirred and began to cry.

 _“John?”_ Sherlock asked, concerned.

“I have to get the baby,” John stammered. “You’ve got a key, right? Just let yourself in. Got to go.”

 

 

To be continued.


	2. Chapter 2

Street lamps illuminated little islands of sidewalk and crumbling pavement over ancient cobblestone while the road was swallowed by darkness in either direction. Bare trees clawed the November sky against surging gray clouds and a sickly moon. The windows of the little white town houses across the street stared back at John, vacant and dark.  Dead leaves swept by the window as the wind kicked up.

 _God,_ John thought, peering out the front door peephole. _Could anybody really be out there? Coming right now, at this very moment?_ His heart was pounding in his throat. He checked the lock for the third time, trying to force the knob with all his strength, not satisfied it would hold until his wrist hurt with the effort.

 _Moriarty is dead, his network is gone_ , John told himself. _Mary’s team is dead. Eurus is back in her cage._

But that was naive, wasn’t it? And there were _so_ many loose ends out there. For every drug dealer, for every smuggler, murder, kidnapper, blackmailer caught and put away over the years, there were _others_ , associates, lovers, bosses, all with _grudges_ , all who knew John’s name and that he had a daughter and that they were all alone.  John didn’t know why he was so afraid. Certainly, all that was true before, and he hadn’t been afraid this morning. He had no idea if Mycroft really had afforded them protection. Sherlock himself said he didn’t know. But Sherlock had sounded so grave on the phone. _Where is Sherlock?_

John moved away from the front door, moving down the hall, stepping quietly in his bare feet. Every noise made him freeze. He reminded himself wasn’t alone in this town house; he had neighbors upstairs and next door, but everyone was asleep as far as he could tell.  And it was an old house. It creaked and groaned with every gust of wind.

John crept from room to room, lights off, checking the window locks. He pulled the drapes closed as he went. In the kitchen, he went to check the back door. He parted the curtains, peered out into the garden. It was pitch black. He didn’t go out there anyway—a forgotten vegetable patch Mary had started, a rose bush full of brown spiders and a narrow, over-grown path to a back alley.

As he looked out, he reached down for the door knob and turned it for good measure.

 

 

_Click._

 

 

John looked down in horror. He was holding the door open, ever so slightly.

Beyond the door was just black night, a stripe of nothing.

Chill crept up his arms and spilled down his chest and back.

He _never_ used this door.

Had it been unlocked all night? When was the last time he even opened this door…?

“I let myself in.”

John gasped and slammed his shoulder against the door. He planted his back against the wall when Sherlock’s voice finally registered.

Sherlock was standing in the middle of the kitchen, slipping the back door key into his pocket. “Sorry, I thought you might have gone back to bed. I was trying to be quiet.”

John’s face sank into his hands. “Gone back to _bed_? After that phone call?" He sucked in a lungful of air like a man who'd been drowning. "Where have you _been_?”

“Sitting in here until I heard a noise by the front door."

"You've been in my kitchen?! For how long?"

"I don't know..."

John gestured frantically at nothing. "I've been sitting in the dark, waiting for you. Watching out the windows! Listening! Waiting for some government ops team or assassins or something to storm the flat a 'disappear' me and my daughter, wondering where you are. How did you get in my house without me hearing?"

"You gave me a key."

John put his hands on his hips, silent. Fuming.

"Also, I want to return this." Sherlock produced John’s gun from his coat pocket.

John plucked the gun from Sherlock’s hand. “Remind me to never let you borrow this again,” he said, checking the magazine and returning the clip with a satisfying _click_. “I forgot I lent it to you until I saw it was missing from my desk.  I almost had a heart attack when I saw it was gone. Have you used it?”

“No, more of a precaution rather than a practicality,” Sherlock assured him.

John tucked the gun into his belt and shuddered. “I have been _a wreck_ since you called. I have mentally gone over every case we’ve ever had, thinking about everyone we’ve ever pissed off. There’s no shortage of people who probably want us dead, and that’s just the people I know, that doesn’t include anybody working behind the scenes.” John paused. “Have you been crying?”

“Maybe,” Sherlock dismissed, his face flush. “A lot of mixed feelings.”

“Do you…?” John lifted his arms awkwardly.

“Oh.” Sherlock thought. “No, that’s not necessary.”

“Alright.” John let his arms drop.

Sherlock said, “Mycroft isn’t worth the tears or the sentiment.”

“Ok.”

Sherlock said, “Nonetheless, I’ve missed your company. Every time I see you, it becomes more and more clear that we are drifting apart. You’ve been preoccupied with acclimating to your new job and being a single father. And I when I do see you, when I talk about the cases I’m working on, it depresses or disinterests you, so I’ve stopped talking about them, and discovered I have very little else to offer you in terms of companionship. I’ve repeatedly reached out to you by phone and text for dinner, but you’ve declined.”

John frowned. “How… _long_ has it been since we’ve seen each other?”

“I’m not sure, precisely.”

“It’s been a while. A few months at least, right?”

“Four months, eleven days.”

“Not sure, _precisely_?”

“I don’t know the exact number of hours. Like I said, I didn’t want to be imprecise.” He lowered his head, a miserable expression escaping his stoic façade. “I’ve missed you _terribly_ ,” Sherlock admitted.

John had something smart to say in reply, but he let it go and instead gave a brotherly pat on Sherlock's arm. 

Sherlock said seriously, “I’m so glad you’re alright. You have no idea. This may be the worst night of my life."

“And I’m glad you called me tonight,” John said. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“It wasn’t because I needed a shoulder to cry on,” Sherlock said. “I needed to tell you what I discovered. Oh my god, John. _What he did to us_.” He began to float directionlessly around the kitchen. “Oh my God. Oh my God.” His breathing was getting louder.

John said, “What’s wrong with you?”

“Panic attack,” Sherlock wheezed, holding out his shaking hands. “I keep compartmentalizing it. I have to. I can’t…” He started taking exaggerated, deep breaths. “Every time I start thinking about it, my mind starts to race. I haven’t been able to really examine the information because every time I do, I start…I start…and…then…then I can’t think at all and I have to start over.” Sherlock trembled.  “It flings open every door in my mind palace. It contaminates every room. Everything is wrong. It flips over every table and tears down the shelves and everything is in pieces everywhere.”

“Um…Try to bring yourself back to the present. Think about something you can see, touch or taste.”

“I keep doing that,” Sherlock said, shaking his hands. “And then I…shut out the traumatizing information entirely into a little space in my mind palace and I…"

"What?"

Sherlock held up his hands helplessly. "Then I forgot what it was. I forget where I put it. All I know is I've forgotten something important. Something upsetting. Something I don't want to look at, but something I can't lose track of. So. Then. I start looking for it. I _have_ to find it again. I start looking in closets and pantries and cupboards until I open the right door and…and there it is again, and I _see it_ , and everything is in ruins again and I can’t walk down the halls, and things are falling all around me and I’m getting crushed by…everything, and I have to muscle that door shut again, if I can find it.” Sherlock sucked in his breath. “I’m not alone in here.”

“What does that mean?”

“There’s bodies. Everywhere.” Sherlock’s eyes started darting in every direction. “Corpses in various states of decomposition. I don’t know how I didn’t notice them before. Propped up on the furniture, draped over chairs and tables, huddled in corners. Some of them are quite old, covered in cobwebs. Some of them are…fresh.” Sherlock lifted up his hands. “Um. There’s blood on my hands. I…I have to wash this off.”

“There’s no blood,” John said. “Its just something you’re seeing in your mind.”

Sherlock slinked towards the kitchen sink, looking anxiously over his shoulder, but not at John. “They’re all…um. They all just looked at me.”

John felt unease and concern for his friend’s well-being, as well as the creeping terror he’d experienced earlier, at the thought of an unknown threat closing in around them.

Sherlock turned the water on and started vigorously washing his hands. Steam swirled around him. “They all just turned their heads and they’re looking at me.” Sherlock took the dish detergent and poured generously until half the bottle was empty, then dropped it in the sink. “I better not look at them.”

John stood next to Sherlock. “Its not real.”

“I hope not, because I can hear them getting up.”

John said, “Sherlock. Listen to me. Its not real. Its something you’re imagining.” He felt like he was telling himself this as well, not just Sherlock.

“They are _very_ unhappy with me.”

John was at a loss and he felt himself panicking. “Sherlock. Are you having a _hallucination_?”

Sherlock said, “Its possible. Schizophrenia manifests in your 30’s. All these visions I have, these elaborate fantasies, could actually be signs of mental illness. Doesn't help me right now."

John reached down for Sherlock’s furiously scrubbing hands. “Are you _high_?”

Sherlock wrenched his hand away. “No.”

John said, “I won’t be angry. I know I overreacted the last time you relapsed. But you can trust me this time. Its totally understandable, with Mycroft dying like this, that you might slip up. I can help you.”

“Yes, you can.  Could you be so kind as to join me in my Mind Palace for a moment, so you can shut the door behind me?”

John blinked. “Ok. Ok. I’m here. Tell me what to do?”

Sherlock vaguely pointed behind him. “They’re getting closer. Can you please shut and lock the door?”

John licked his lips and pointed at nothing. “This one?”

Sherlock didn’t look. “Yes, that one, please. Do hurry.”

John went to the back kitchen door, opened and shut it loudly and turned the key. “There. It’s locked.”

Sherlock turned around, his expression sagging and blank. He held his scrubbed-raw hands in front of himself, dripping water on the floor.

John folded his arms across his chest. “Tell me the truth. Are you using?”

“I told you; _no_.”

“Because the last time you were this out of your mind, you were.”

Sherlock went to the coffee pot. “I once had a fantasy so immersive, I was convinced you and I were living in 1895. We still lived on Baker Street together. I did it back when we received that pre-recorded video message from Moriarty and I was trying to work out if it was possible for him to have faked his death…”

“You’ve told me,” John interrupted. “A few times. And you were high.”

Sherlock took down two coffee mugs and began to fix the drinks. “And one time I fantasized we moved back in together, re-kindled our fading friendship and solved crimes together and raised your daughter.” Sherlock turned around with he coffees in hand. “As we got older, we moved to Sussex and bought a cottage. You started a modest practice in town and I tutored chemistry. We had a bee hive.”

“What case was _that_ for?”

Sherlock offered John a coffee. “Oh, it wasn’t for a case, it was for me.”

“You’re very calm all of a sudden,” John said impatiently, accepting the mug.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

John gestured towards the back kitchen door. “The shuffling zombies in your Mind Palace I just locked out, triggered by some horrible information Mycroft imparted to you on his death bed.”

Sherlock gave John a puzzled look.

John was aghast. “Please tell me this is a metaphor. I know you’re a damaged genius and if this is how you parse out your emotions, I’m fine with that. But Sherlock. You can’t honestly expect me to believe you’ve _literally_ locked away information in your Mind Palace where you can’t remember it.”

Sherlock thought a moment, taking a sip of his coffee. “I’ve been known to compartmentalize. It’s something Mycroft taught me years ago. And I know he told me something….terrible.” He paused. “Let me see if I can find it. I have a place for troubling, nagging thoughts.” He set his coffee on the counter and closed his eyes.

“Seriously?”

Sherlock’s eye lids fluttered. “There’s a broom closet at the end of this hallway. No, not there. Ugh. Embarrassing public school memories. Remind me to lock that door. Uh. There’s a dumbbell waiter. No. Nothing. Let me try this door.” He went quiet.

John said nothing. He looked down at the floor.

Sherlock paused. “Maybe that door.” He was quiet for a few moments. His eyes opened abruptly.

“What?”

Sherlock turned around and went to the back kitchen door. He tested the knob. He looked between the curtains and then shut them. He took the key out of the door and extended it to John. “Keep this door locked and do not, under any circumstances, open it.”

 

To be continued...


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

For a long while, there was only silence in the flat; an eerie, unsettling silence, accompanied by the occasional creaking beam and the cries of wind outside. The window panes clanked and shuddered in protest.

John was curled up on the couch with Sherlock. He propped himself up on the arm, legs tucked under him, looking and feeling small, while Sherlock was draped over the length, head resting on John’s thigh, eyes closed and hands folded casually over his chest. He repositioned frequently, muttering. Rosie slept in the bassinet John dragged out of the closet. They were huddled together in one room like cavemen trying to wait out a predator lurking outside the den. John had his gun on the coffee table.

_Tap-tap._

John sat up straight. He waited. Listened. Listened long enough to start to relax back into his arm chair.

_Tap-tap-tap._

John thought, _Please, be the wind._

“You’re breaking my concentration,” Sherlock complained.

“You done sorting your mind palace yet?” John asked impatiently.

“There’s a lot of data corrupted. I’m still processing it.”

“Process _faster_.”

“It doesn’t work that way.”

_Knock._

John looked up, went stock still. Sherlock’s eyes opened.

It had come from the kitchen.

“It almost sounds like someone at the back door,” John said.

“There’s _been_ someone at the back door,” Sherlock dismissed, closing his eyes again. “I told you. Just don’t open it and we’ll be fine.”

“What? Shambling corpses? From your mind palace?”

“Possibly.”

John snorted humorlessly. “Right. Sherlock. Are you _sane_ right now?”

“As far as I know.”

“Good, because before I entertain anymore talk about mind palaces and ghosts, I need to be perfectly clear with you on something: Is Mycroft actually dead? Or is that something you imagined?”

Sherlock sneered. “I didn’t _imagine_ that.”

“You’re sure?” John pressed. “Because you had a pretty vivid vision a little while ago, and even now the ghosts of Christmas past or some shit, are standing on my back stoop according to you.  And if there’s a real flesh and blood human being on my back porch who has intentions to harm us, I need you firmly in reality. Understand?”

Sherlock said nothing.

John took a deep breath and tried to center himself. “Look. I’m so sorry that Mycroft is dead...”

_“I told you; I don’t care.”_

“Shut up. I know you’re still in the angry stage or denial or whatever, and you think what’s going on doesn’t have to do with your feelings for Mycroft, but you loved your brother and he loved you, too...”

Sherlock sat up abruptly and turned to John. “Yeah, he loved me. In a _creepy_ way. Or maybe you never noticed.”

“... _And I’m telling you_ ,” John continued forcefully on, “because you need to understand; You are not yourself. You’re having a nervous break-down. And we may be in real danger. Or not! Who the fuck knows? So I need facts. I need to know, right now, what Mycroft told you. Exactly.”

“I’m _trying_ to think of the best way t0o tell you,” Sherlock said.

“What? Is it too complicated for my little brain?”

“Yes, quite frankly,” Sherlock said.

“What could Mycroft possibly have said, what could he have muttered with his dying breath that turned your brain into a carnival fun house?”

Sherlock sputtered in frustration, “Every time I think of a place to start, I realize I have to go further and further back. As far back as when we first met. Even before that. Back to when I was a kid. That’s why my Mind Palace is falling apart. It effects every memory I have…”

“Just tell me what he _said_.”

“You need context! It’s critical!”

 **_BANG_ ** **.**

Both men froze.

The whole flat had shuddered with the force of it. John’s gun on the table had rattled. Across the hall in the dining room, the chandelier crystals jingled lightly, and now it swayed. And her bassinet, Rosie whimpered, awakened, and began to cry.

“Jesus, there really is someone on the back stoop,” John said, getting to his feet, nearly dumping Sherlock to the floor. John snatched up his gun and marched with purpose down the hall, into the kitchen. The room was dark other than a light over the stove, but it was enough to illuminate the room and black out the windows.

John stopped.

He realized, in the middle of the room, from _this_ place, anyone outside looking in could see him clearly, but they were invisible to him. He could see nothing through the back door window but black night.  He knew there was a path, knew there was an old fence and a gate beyond, but there might as well be an empty void into the Nothing. There might as well be someone standing right there.

John stood firm, one fist clenched, one holding tightly to his gun pointing at the floor. He set his jaw and rotated his shoulder, squaring up for a fight, or least letting anyone on the other side of the door know he was ready for a fight.

 **_BANG_ ** **.**

Something hit the back door with such force that the window rattled and the door jams jumped. John saw the wood in the door _flex_.

John buckled like he’d been punched in the gut, retreating back two steps, gun instantly raised with considerably _less_ than a soldier’s nerves. “I can see you!” he lied. “Get out of here!”

The door was quiet.

 _Advance or retreat,_ John thought, unable to decide.

“John?” Sherlock gently whispered from down the hall.

John hesitated, then began to back up slowly. At the threshold of the kitchen, he whispered back to Sherlock, “I can’t see anyone .”

“Don’t open the door,” Sherlock warned.

John continued to retreat. “Go back to the sitting room and don’t let Rosie out of your sight.”

 **_BANG_ ** **_BANG BANG_ _BANG_**

In rapid succession, something pounded on the back kitchen door. The door jumped, the lock rattled.  

“They’re _looking_ at you,” Sherlock hissed, hiding behind the door frame of the sitting room. 

John looked at Sherlock in dread.

Sherlock mouthed: _“Run!”_

John looked back at the door. Nothing. There was no one standing there. He should be able to see something, a shadow, a movement. The window was totally black.

 **_BANG_ ** **_BANG BANG_ _BANG BANG_ _BANG BANG_ _BANG BANG_ _BANG BANG_ _BANG_**

Sherlock scrambled up to John, slipping on the floor, hooking his arm’s under John’s and practically dragged him back down the hall.  Pictures on the wall danced, dust and plaster were falling from the ceiling. Startled from his stupor, John ran head-long with Sherlock as fast as he could, both men gripping each other in sheer terror, tripping over themselves in a tangle of limbs. They crawled into the sitting room on their hands and knees.

Rosie was screaming in her bassinette. John reached for her, rolling over onto his back and holding her tight.

Sherlock stared dumbly at John, wide-eyed and at a loss.

John shouted, “What do we do?!” at the moment it stopped.

There was nothing except Rosie’s miserable cries.

They both looked around, unbelieving it was over.

John kissed Rosie’s hair. “Shh, shh. Its okay.” 

“John.” Sherlock was standing at the edge of the archway, looking down the hall. His eyes were wide.

"What? What is it?”

“Look.”

John hummed to Rosie, trying to sooth her. He crept closer to Sherlock, stood beside him and peered down the hall.

The back door was open wide.

There was no wind. The curtains did not rustle in the breeze. There was no noise coming from outside. No howling wind, no skittering leaves, no distant hum of traffic or chirping insects. There was no faint outlines of backyard in the moonlight. Just black nothing, flat, unmoving, unearthly.

Nothing.

Nothing.

“Sherlock?” John asked, struggling to fill his lungs. “Do you see anything? Anyone? In your mind palace?”

“Yes.”

Rosie continued to whimper.

John clutched her tight. “Don't. Tell me. What you see. Take her…and I’m going down there...to close the door.”

Sherlock put his hand on John’s arm like a vice. “Don’t. Don’t move. _Look at me_. Please. Do you remember the pool?”

“Sherlock…”

“ _Context_ ,” he insisted, jerked John back and forcing him to face him.

“Is it the pool I’m thinking of?” John asked, tearing his eyes from the door and locking gazes with Sherlock. His nostrils filled with the stench of chlorine, gun powder and sweat.

In John’s mind’s eye, Sherlock was nearly a decade younger. His curls were thicker, tighter, a glorious crown worthy of an impish faun.

Sherlock said, his voice impossibly small, “When I recognized your face, lit up by the glow of the swimming pool, I remember all my adrenaline melting from my limbs."

"Ok. And?"

Sherlock licked his lips, eyes unfocused, retreating into a long-gone memory: "I...remember holding out the memory stick. I remember. I couldn't move. I remember the things you said, the things Moriarty made you say...so vividly. But. I remember it _twice_. Because...the first time...I thought _you_ were saying those things. So I remember it a certain way. But then, I realized he was _making you say those things_. So then I remember it a different way after that realization. And...that's the way it really happened. You were kidnapped. You were a hostage. You were a mouthpiece under Moriarty's control. And I know that's what happened. I have two different memories of the same event. And one of those memories is real life. I have a file for that memory. It's neatly alphabetized, along with my cases and my every day life events."

John listened, not understanding.

"But then, I have a different memory of that same moment. And that memory is in a dark room in the basement of my mind palace. And also in that room are corpses that are not quite dead. They languish. Still...writhing. They scratch at the ceiling and I can hear them through the floor of my mind palace."

"The way you felt," John attempted to articulate, "when you thought I was the bomber?"

"Yes," Sherlock said.

John nodded in understanding. "You...you thought I was a killer. That I deceived you."

"Yes."

"That our friendship wasn't real," John continued, "And that I lured you to some dark end in that pool. I understand. It's okay. That must have been a terrible experience for you. But obviously, Sherlock, I didn't lie to you. I really was and am your friend. I'm not some killer. I'm exactly who I say I am. Our friendship is real. Everything that's ever happened between us is real. And that happened years and years ago. It means nothing now."

Sherlock's eyes closed. "No. It still means so much."

"Why?"

"Your voice was so cold and detached. The way you said ‘This is a turn-up, isn’t it, Sherlock?’ you sounded like a different person.  I dared to believe, dared to deny, dared to _forgive_ , I begged God, _Please don’t be what it looks like, we were getting on so fine_. When you said, ‘I bet you never saw this coming,’ I remember…I thought _No, I didn’t see that coming. Oh, John. John. Brilliant, brilliant John. Two-faced, serial-murderer, master criminal John. Yes, it has worked out a little too well, hasn’t it? But it has been fun, hasn't it? Fleeting, lovely and all together false. Maybe I did see it coming and just ignored the signs. It had just been…so….so… It had been just so."'_ Sherlock paused to take a breath. "And I thought _, '_ _And it can be again! And it doesn’t have to be any different. It can continue to be lovely, fleeting and false._ At least, that's what I told myself as I walked forward, leaving my principals behind me. And so I searched for the words to say how I felt: _Bravo! Bravo! It was a dazzling deception and the most thrilling ride of my life. Are you…in need of an assistant? My life is empty. Fill it with your grisly amusements. I, too, have thought of it. Of killing. Just to see what it's like. Just to watch Lestrade's face as he tries to figure it out, just to point the police in the wrong direction and laugh as they scramble away. I have wondered if I am capable of the perfect crime. I have wondered how many times I could get away with it. Oh God. I've thought of it! I've singled strangers out of the crowd and thought, I can do this. I just never have. And I've never told anyone, never revealed my sick curiosity...who could I share such a thought with? And when I catch myself thinking about it, I have a good chuckle about it and dismiss it…but I keep thinking it! I keep thinking it! You understand, don't you? Please teach me what to do with this feeling. I may be inexperienced now, but with your guidance, we can do so many terrible, glorious things together.”_ Sherlock took a deep, shuddering breath, finally wrenching his eyes away, too ashamed to look John in the face any longer.  “Then,” he said, struggling, “you parted your coat and showed me the bombs. And when you said, _‘What would you like me to make him say next?’_ …I discovered… I’m dirt.”

John stared at Sherlock, dumbfounded.

Sherlock looked back at John, profoundly sad. Then his eyes flickered over John’s shoulder. “Oh.”

John turned around, tense, holding Rosie closed.

The back door was shut.

The kitchen was still and quiet.

 

To be continued...


End file.
